


The Whisk Is Not Enough

by mercuria



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Cooking, Crack, Gen, Humor, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:13:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuria/pseuds/mercuria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not even suave superspies can be good at everything. MI6 discovers that James Bond has one fatal weakness.</p><p>(Alternative titles include <i>License to Grill.</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Whisk Is Not Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes!
> 
> \- This fic was written for [this fantabulous kink meme prompt](http://007kinkmeme.livejournal.com/1142.html?thread=77686#t77686). Everyone should go hang out at the kink meme, it's small but pretty great. *____*  
> \- The star of the fic can be found [here](http://disgustinglygood.com/2011/02/20/no-crust-quiche/), should you want to cook it.  
> \- Iiiii have no idea how to put this out there, but! I am in love with Bond fandom AND on Tumblr. If you would be cool with my maybe following you, rather than exclusively stalking Skyfall tags which is what I am now doing, doooo let me know; I'm initforthefiction over there.  
> \- ENJOY.

It's a typical slow (late) night at MI6. 

There are no hostage crises, no international incidents, no security breaches. There's just Q, blinking away sleep with a third cup of tea in hand, and Agent 007, license to kill, seducing a Colombian drug lord's mistress.

She's really eating up the pickup lines.

 _"Oh, James,"_ she purrs into the white room, her accent turning the familiar name into a song Q's never heard before. It almost makes him want to travel. _"Marcos won't be back from his warehouse until midnight."_

 _"Enough time for dinner, then,"_ Bond quips, appallingly. Q can just about hear the grin. _"Maybe a show."_

_"Are you going to cook me dinner, James?"_

Q flips a card on his screen: nine of spades. He lays it on top of a ten, drags an eight-seven-six on top of the nine, and realizes then that it's been a bit quiet over the line for the past moment. 

He glances to a second, more official monitor: everything normal.

 _"… Well,"_ says James Bond.

 _"Don't tell me you're too **manly** ,"_ the woman's voice teases. _"I'm sure a man like you knows his way around a carving knife."_

_"I do know you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs."_

Jack, jack, jack, jack, queen, queen, queen, queen, king, king, king, king and there's the game.

"It's late, Q," reproaches a much closer voice. 

Q glances up, muting their side of the radio feed with a _tap-tap._

Moneypenny is smiling at him, coat on and bag in hand and one eyebrow arched. 

"What are you doing?" she says.

"Broadly?" He pushes his glasses up his nose. "Monitoring 007's activities in Bogotá, where the local time is 6:34 pm. Specifically I'm playing solitaire." He starts up a new game. "Feels a bit metaphorical, really, with the turn this evening's taken. I've started timing myself."

Moneypenny grins, settling into an abandoned spinning desk chair. "Yeah? What's your best?"

 _"Q."_

Q realizes then that Bond's repeated this a few times, he's just gotten louder about it. He turns up the volume on their side of communications. "Bond, yes?"

Bond's voice comes over quiet and taut, the way it almost never does when he's chasing assassins through crowded bazaars or defusing a troublesome explosive:

_"I need backup."_

Moneypenny goes tense.

"What?" Q says. "What's happened?"

Bond mutters something.

"Please articulate, 007," Q insists.

 _" **Cook** ,"_ Bond snaps. _"I told her I'd bloody cook."_

Q pauses.

"… Did he say 'cook'?" Moneypenny asks.

"007, I'm not sure what you're asking," Q says hesitantly.

 _"Well I **can't** cook,"_ Bond growls. _"Therefore, backup. Needed. Now, please."_

Q and Moneypenny exchange a look, and Moneypenny bursts into a dry giggle.

"Oh, God," she laughs. _"What?"_

 _"What is Eve doing there?"_ Bond demands.

"Stopped in for a late-night chat," she answers. "It's past Q's bedtime around here."

Q throws her a long-suffering look. "Bond, where is your target?"

 _"Left me in the kitchen while she picks a negligee,"_ Bond growls.

"Ah," Q says pleasantly. "In that case, can you tell me what she's got on hand?"

"This is ridiculous." Moneypenny grins into her hands. "Are you really going along with this, Q?"

"For Queen and country," he answers, as Bond begins to list in a clipped, resentful tone.

 _"Eggs,"_ he says. _"Milk. Some kind of meat. Bananas, mango juice, a lot of white wine-- appalling--"_

"Hmm." Q glances to his laptop and types something. "And on a scale from 1 to 10, how would you describe your culinary acumen, 007?"

Bond mumbles something that sounds a lot like _always burn the toast._

Moneypenny chokes.

"Based on the limited profile you've provided," Q says, clicking between windows; Moneypenny looks over his shoulder and sees a lot of nonsense-looking words moving very quickly, "I'm going to suggest a quiche."

_"I assume you'll provide the recipe."_

"I'll have to, won't I?" Q sighs, as a voice from the door says, "Quiche?"

"Oh my God, Tanner, get in here," Moneypeny grins, leaning back in her chair. "Q's assisting 007 on a _vital_ mission."

"What's vital about quiche?" asks Tanner, frowning owlishly at the big central screen. Currently, it's displaying a website: _BARRY'S BEST QUICHE LORRAINE._

_"Good God, is that Tanner."_

"Mm. Not bad," Tanner concedes of the screen, with connoisseurly good nature. "I've done a very good one with black forest ham and manchego, as well."

Q blinks. "You cook, Tanner?"

"Oh, now and then," Tanner answers with a slight nod and smile, "nothing fancy."

"Manchego?" Moneypenny accuses, gleefully. "Tanner, you never told us you're a master chef."

_"If you'd all kindly shut up and give me the recipe."_

"Right," Q answers, "I've got it all right here, Bond, you'll need those eggs." 

Tanner frowns up at the recipe. "Does he have a pie crust?"

Bond's voice replies flatly, _"A pie crust."_

"That'll add another 45 minutes to the whole thing, 30 if he's really quick--"

_"We don't have 45 bloody minutes, we've got--"_

_"Jaaaaames!"_

Moneypenny sits up in her chair, expression a tormented picture of suppressed glee.

_"What are you making me, James?"_

_"Oh,"_ says Bond, all unruffled, seductive charm once more. _"A chef never reveals his secrets."_ (Moneypenny snorts.)

_"Do I have to close my eyes?"_

_"Just pour some wine and relax; I'll do all the heavy lifting. And … don't put anything else on."_

The woman giggles loudly.

 _"James,"_ she reproaches.

A moment later, Bond whispers, _"She's gone."_

"All right, Bond," Q says, referring to a new recipe that Tanner had looked up during the interlude, "you'll need to find her oven and preheat it to 375 degrees."

_"I thought this was a cooking lesson, Quartermaster."_

"Please don't make this any more of a waste of my time than it is," Q sighs. "Preheat to 375."

_"Is that bake, or broil?"_

"Good God, bake," Tanner protests.

"That would be 'bake,' 007," Q confirms.

_"Done."_

"Excellent," says Q. He pushes his glasses up his nose. "Now you'll need about five of those eggs and some cheese, and preferably a handful of dill. Has she got a whisk?"

Over the line, the sounds of drawers opening and shutting and metal things clanging can be heard.

"I can't believe this," Moneypenny says, shaking her head. "The great James Bond can barely use an oven."

"You don't really see that one coming," Tanner agrees with a bemused blink.

 _"Well I beg your pardon,"_ Bond grumbles, sardonic. _"Between maids and boarding school and the bloody Navy, I haven't had much occasion to master the domestic arts."_

"But what do you do now, 007?" Q asks. "You live alone."

Clang, clatter, slam. _"I eat out."_

Tanner, Q, and Monepenny all glance to each other. 

_"… Hello?"_

"I'm sorry, Bond," says Q. "I think we were all experiencing a moment of melancholy reflecting on the state of your refrigerator."

_"Why don't you experience a moment of telling me how long to whisk this?"_

"Well, it doesn't exactly _say_ ," Q demurs.

"You've sort of got to eyeball it, 007," Tanner puts in.

Bond's snort comes over the line from Bogotá with surprising clarity.

"Just-- stop, now, I'm sure you've done it very well," Q says hastily.

"What's going on down here?"

Q, Moneypenny, and Tanner turn abruptly to the door, where M is arching a questioning eyebrow.

"Ah … ssisting with 007's mission in Colombia, sir," Tanner answers, as M's gaze drifts to the recipe on the main monitor. 

_"Oh. M."_ Bond's voice sounds very flat. _"Of course."_

"Now, umm," Q says, gaze sliding to M and back to his computers, "you'll want to take that meat and chop it up, Bond, and then put it in the bottom of a buttered pie dish."

A series of drawers bangs open with what sounds like great prejudice. It is followed by very angry chopping.

M fails to look enlightened.

"Bond can't cook," Moneypenny explains. "But did you know Tanner makes quiches with _manchego_?"

"… Manchego?" M glances to Tanner. "Really? Is it good?"

"It went over pretty well," Tanner admits.

 _"Meat in the dish,"_ Bond snaps. _"Now what?"_

"Oh, wonderful, you're almost there," says Q. "Pour over the egg mixture, and into the oven it goes. You'll cook it … half an hour."

Bond groans. 

M says, "Should I be requiring all my double-ohs to engage in basic culinary training?"

 _"I hope Marcos shoots me,"_ Bond mutters.

A radio-silent pause.

_"… Shit. I forgot the butter."_

_"JAMES!"_

Everybody jumps.

_"James, I'm so tired of waiting …"_

Bond, making what sounds like an admirably quick recovery, says:

_"Patience is a virtue. It won't be long now."_

_"But **how** long?"_

Pause.

"Half an hour," hisses Q.

_"Half an hour?"_

The woman laughs. _"Oh, James, I can't wait that long! Cooking for me like this-- it's so sexy, I'm not even hungry anymore!"_

Moneypenny, sprawled in the spinning chair, buries her face in her coat to muffle her laughter.

_"I need you to make love to me **right** now."_

_"Well … if you insist."_

Pause.

"It … sounds like the baking time may be irrelevant, then," Q notes. "Well, good show, everyone. And, uh … don't let the nice drug lord's house burn down, Bond, at least not while you're in it."

Moneypenny wipes her eyes. "This is the best night of my life."

"And now," M muses, "I'm feeling rather peckish for quiche."


End file.
